I have an old friend, Sam, who writes for the paper up in Virginia City. He visits me sometimes late at night. I don’t invite him. He just shows up to pass on his two cents of corny wisdom.
A few months ago, I couldn’t fall asleep thinking about my pack of troubles. Sam pipes up from nowhere and says, “I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened.”
Then, just last week, I was so ticked off at a neighbor who continues to complain about my shepherds barking at passing deer and coyotes. I was plotting revenge. There went Sam again: “Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.”
As I thought about Sam’s fancy lingo, it made a lot of sense. So I said, “Thanks, Sam. You are a wise man.”
Sam replied, “I can live for two months on a good compliment.”
That was enough. In my most sarcastic voice, I said, “Who do you think you are, Mark Twain?”
As I fell asleep, I’m sure I heard Sam say, “Yep.”